


Expectations Defied

by Dana



Series: Beliefs [2]
Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Author Is Sleep Deprived, Bittersweet, Established Relationship, M/M, angst and smut and fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-26 09:58:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3846634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dana/pseuds/Dana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some other thoughts about Sam, and Gene, and Gene's bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Expectations Defied

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing a Gene pov bedfic to complement [Preconceived Notions](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3744871). Angst and bittersweetness and a whole lot of introspective Gene occurred. ~~I have a particular fondness for writing this sort of Gene.~~ Oh yeah, and smut. Which, for all that happens in this story, I don't really think it's a pwp. I'll tag it as one anyhow though, just in case.
> 
> I wrote this the week before last when I was... deliriously high from a severe lack of sleep. I've tidied it up some since then but this story was formed, at its most basic level, when I'd not slept for a good eighty hours. ... just leaving that note as an added warning, I guess.

It really says something when Sam's moaning and thrashing about wakes him at rat's arse o'clock in the morning and Gene doesn't just punt the noisy prick out of bed. It's clear that Sam needs most is a swift, hard kick – but what he gets, time and time again instead, is some version or another of Gene's understanding, his sympathy almost. What it says about the both of them hardly bears speaking, let alone thinking: it surely goes so far as to defy any sane, reasonable explanation.

Honestly, if he'd known that shagging his DI would be this bloody complicated, he'd have reconsidered while there was still a chance, nipped the entire messy affair neatly in the bud. Gene knows that, now that he's grown accustomed to it, there's really no easy way out. Addictions are addictions. Like the slug of whisky he needs first thing to put fire in his gut, Sam's something he can't do without. He hates admitting it to himself, let alone saying anything at all to Sam.

It's not as if Sam hadn't been problematic from the start. No, he couldn't just be an easy shag, couldn't just be an agreeable subordinate. He had to make Gene want him, do right by him, not just let him into his home but make space for him in his bed, fight him for it, every bloody step of the way. Made him trust him, and that was the worst of all. It was Gene's own stubbornness, him being something of a bastard himself, rearing its proud head when he did all he could to keep Sam at arm's length. Push away, shove, hit him whenever he deemed it necessary – and being that it was Sam, it so often was.

Anything less meant Gene was a pansy, and the Gene Genie most certainly was _not_ a pansy, a poof, a bloody fairy – no, nothing of the sort. True enough, he liked the sex, favoured the attention Sam intermittently heaped upon him, and between the two of them at least knew what was really up. There were rules to the engagement, after all, even if Sam lacked the sense to see them. Because Sam, like he didn't know any better, kept coming back for more.

Still, while the odd quickie had its appeal, there was nothing quite so satisfactory as really sinking his teeth into the matter, and getting Sam in bed. Shagging of course meant sleeping afterwards (unless it was the sort of sex you had to help start your day, a different matter altogether) and that meant Sam could stick around, so long as he didn't make too much fuss. He'd curl up on his side at the far edge of the bed, the side that had, once upon a time, been Gene's wife's. He kept his back to Gene and, in a way that was novel compared to the shitfits he'd throw at work, simply did as he'd been told.

Gene hadn't signed up for nightmares – Sam was, after all, supposed to not make a fuss. The first time it happened, that's when Gene really should have drawn a new line – kicked Sam out of his bed, out of his life – but he didn't, and that meant he was just as bad as Sam was when it came to not knowing any better, at coming back for more.

Really, it's not being woken up that bothers him – it's no problem, getting back to sleep: the problem is, Sam's too broken to even get a good night's rest, and how he keeps it together, Gene doesn't know. He's such an excellent copper (one more thing Gene tends to keep to himself), but the rest of his life is an absolute bloody wreck. It brings out certain protective urges that Gene mostly likes to ignore, the ones that seemed just as out of place when they were focused on Stu, his elder by three years. It's the same premise, really, because just like Stu Sam needs someone to take care of him, seeing how he's too blind to do it himself.

He really scraped the bottom, after he lost his brother. It hardly bears thinking, what he'd do if he lost _Sam_.

Mostly it's Sam groaning and struggling, begging for forgiveness – given how it's Gene he's woken up, there's only one bloke he ought to be apologising to, but it's never forthcoming. Sometimes he calls out for his mum, sometimes there's just no telling what his lunatic bedmate is going on about – it's a marvel, almost, Sam making even less sense than he normally does. The absolute worst of it is when Sam cries. Even when it's a bloke that's shedding them, Gene's no good at tears.

Go to sleep, he tells him, the level of kindness depending on the amount of sleep he's recently accumulated: sometimes he's gentle, other times he's a bit more rough. Sam uncomplicates matters, either way, and just like he did at the start of the night, groggy and confused, does as he's been told. There's moments when Gene's seeing so clear, even despite the exhaustion, that all he wants to do is tug Sam over to him and hold him close – that bloody protective urge again, trying to pull one over on him. It's obvious that Sam's haunted by demons he can't escape, ones that exist alone in his mind, so what real good could he do? A whole world of it, that's it – even Gene understands the simple power of a meaningful embrace. Sam needs someone to chase away those shadows, and Gene should be that someone. He's Sam's Guv. It's only right.

And it is meaningful, no matter how he tries to hide it.

Of course, then there's nights like tonight.

He wakes. The light's on, but the bed is otherwise empty, cool when he runs his hand across the sheets. He'll follow Sam's unseen path downstairs, like he always does, and find his DI sat on the floor before the telly in the living room. Sam's marbles are on temporary leave, he needs to be grounded – it's times like this where Gene knows all he wants in this life, other than to drink well and die better, is to save Sam from himself. He needs it. The madness that Tony Crane tried to out shines so brightly in these dark, hidden moments, pressed into the crevices of the night, that it makes Gene sick. Sick, because he knows he'll have to deal with it eventually, losing Sam. One way or another, no matter what else he might say, he doesn't really seem the 'happily forever after' sort.

Nothing so broken ever knows how to stay put.

Sometimes Sam's shouting at the telly, or crying, which means more begging for forgiveness, but tonight he's just staring, cross-legged, at the dead screen. Gene stoops down behind him and Sam flinches when he reaches for him, flinches but doesn't pull away as Gene wraps him up tight.

As wound up as he is, it doesn't take him long to go limp in Gene's arms, sagging back against him. Gene presses his face into the crook of Sam's neck, lips brushing against skin, knows he's as damned now as he's ever been when it comes to dealing with this man.

'Didn't sign up for any of this rubbish,' he says, and while he means it, the words lack _heat_.

'Sorry,' Sam replies, shifting about in his arms, and on the following beat: 'Did I make the right choice?'

'Sure you did,' Gene says, like he always says.

Sam huffs out a small laugh, bitter and soft. He's shaking his head now, rubbing his hair against Gene's cheek. 'How do you know that? You're not even real.'

'How dare you suggest the Gene Genie is anything but real.' Just as forceful as he ever is when Sam's in this sort of state, so not forceful at all, not even the slightest sting. There's no use shaking him, shouting at him – he's tried. If he thinks he gets to Sam, it trickles back down through the cracks of his madness, swallowed up by dreams and sleep. He won't remember any of this come morning, and Gene's learned not to try.

'Come on,' he says when Sam stays silent. 'Let's go back to bed.'

Sam nods, but he makes no effort to move. 'I'm so tired,' he whispers, voice rough and worn, and Gene's certain Sam's not talking about sleep. No, it's so much more, so much deeper, something that's not so easy to peg down.

'And so I bloody repeat myself, let's go back to bed.'

Sam twists about, slides his arms about Gene's waist, quicksilver fast. His hands slide up, press against Gene's cheeks, cradling his face in his suddenly shaking hands. 'You have to be real. I love you, and I know I shouldn't, but you have to be real.'

And it breaks his heart because he knows Sam means it. 'Come on, Sammy-boy – you need to get some bloody shut eye.'

Sam looks like he'll fight it, only then he nods, bleary eyed – when Gene pulls himself up, Sam follows along like a doll. He's clinging on as they trudge up the stairs, does more of the same when Gene pushes him to his side of the bed. He's needy and desperate and it's so not _Sam_ , though in the same breath, it completely is. Sam's needed him from the start, he's said so himself – not that he remembers it, it having been said on another night like this. Of course Sam would come with plenty of baggage. The nightmares, the crying out in his sleep, practically sleepwalking. Maybe this is just what's left over when everything else gets scooped out.

The fruit's an empty fruit.

'Don't leave me, please,' but he's sure Sam's the one who'll leave him one day, he's just the sort. Gene climbs into bed and pulls Sam into the centre, wraps an arm around him and nestles them beneath the covers. Sam gives an unhappy sigh, fit so perfectly in Gene's arms. The way Sam's always seen it, he didn't come to A Division because he wanted it, despite Gene having the proof that states otherwise. No, he came here because he was a lunatic who'd claimed he'd been in an accident, one who'd come from the future. Oh, Annie's confided a lot in him, more than Sam will ever know.

Of course, Sam's words try to tell it to him differently – they always do. 'I'm here, I'm staying. I might have made that promise to Annie, but I came back for you.'

He's lying and Gene can't call him on it – is it even a lie if Sam believes it's the truth? He brushes a kiss at Sam's forehead and whispers instead: 'Don't go telling Flash Knickers that, you'd break her bloody heart.'

Sam doesn't see the joke, not that Gene had really tried, because all he looks is tired and glum. Gene presses another fleeting kiss at Sam's temple, feels the tremble of his breath, runs his thumb down from ear to jaw, that softer stretch of skin. 'Go back to sleep, love.'

There, a flash of something, something just as fleeting. 'See, you love me too. You hurt me but...'

He's out like a light, but maybe he's been somewhat asleep all along (given how much he'll not remember, the next morning), a frown creasing his brow. Gene kisses it away, does the same to the one that follows, holds on with all his strength as Sam mutters absently in his sleep. He knows that Sam will extricate himself at some point, retreat back to his edge of the bed, and the morning that comes after will somehow sort itself out. That's how it always goes, and maybe one of those days – if Gene's very lucky – he'll end up sorting Sam out as well. For the time being, at least once Sam has slipped away, he rolls onto his back, scowls at the unseen ceiling looming in the darkness overhead. And, as if he hadn't done too bloody much of it already, he _thinks_.

He's not a monster who beats on the helpless – no, he reserves that brutality for bastard crims, shows no mercy to the scum that litters his city. He may dish it out but Sam can take it, has a decent track record when it comes to giving it back. That's his Sammy-boy, always fighting it – whether he's railing out against the injustice of the world, or just being a prick when it comes to proper procedure, Sam Tyler doesn't know what it means to _back down_. The punch ups help to clear the air, and when that doesn't work – and when they're not in public – there's always sex. It definitely helps them get things sorted out and done, but it's hardly the sort of activity that would boost team morale.

Dealing with Sam in the dark pit of the night wears him down, and he isn't always able to go back to sleep. His mood depends on how much of that precious stuff he's managed to stuff back under his belt, and the more tired he is, the more his crankiness is justified. Someone needs to pay for his suffering, and seeing how the cause of all his grief – too much of it really – is right in his own bed, it gets to be Sam.

Sam sits across from him, watches him as he downs a gulp of whisky, wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. 'What?' he snaps, but Sam shakes his head, shrugs.

'Nothing.' There's a flicker of something, probably disgust – but Gene knows that, if he were to offer the flask to the hypocritical nonce, he'd likely take a drink from it as well.

When his luck runs particularly bad, he wakes with unwanted morning wood. Sam might not remember the night before, but he knows that Gene sleeps like the dead, and if he's not slept well the fault can only have been his. Wordlessly, he gets up and pads over to the bathroom, comes back a minute later with the tube of slick in hand, teeth nice and minty fresh. He flashes a wan smile, the first fragile offering of peace, his fingers running down his pyjama top, slipping across the buttons.

He ends up in the centre of the bed, stark naked, trembling with each controlled breath that rolls out of him. He's on his hands and knees, steadying himself on his elbows, and there's no telling _why_ Gene finds this so bloody appealing, attractive, only that he does. It's Sam, spread wide and exposed, physically vulnerable where he'd been emotionally unstable, and only a handful of hours before. 

The show gets going, Gene watching as Sam reaches back with lube-slicked fingers to start working himself open. He tenses, hitches forward, hisses out a moan, and Gene nips at his lower lip, worries it, _stares_. He doesn't know if he'd find this as attractive if it was some other bloke, because it's hotter than it's got any right to be just being _Sam_.

It's time to crawl back into bed. As much fun as it is to watch, there's an itch beneath his skin and he can't quite reach it – the only way to satisfy that urge is to pound his DI into the mattress. He's dead tired, after all, and this is just the sort of heat he needs to wake himself up. The shot of whisky didn't do the trick, but nothing gets his blood running like a proper shag.

He swats at Sam's arse, and that clever hand drops away, disappearing beneath his body. Gene presses up behind him, lets his dick rest in the cleft of Sam's arse – just rests it there, watches. Sam's clutching at the pillow now, he's ready for it – they've done this before, and he doesn't just mean sex. Sam knows what's coming, and as much as he'll be begging for it, it won't be nice.

He pitches forward as Gene digs his hold into Sam's hips, gasping when the blunt head of Gene's prick starts to stretch his hole wide, wider. 'That's it,' Gene breathes out, putting his all into it, pushing in til it's flesh against flesh, nothing else between. Sam lets out a groan, the deep, trembling sort, pushes his face into the pillow, thrusts his arse back in Gene's direction. His face, at least, will stay there for a while.

Gene fucks with brutal efficiency, no holds barred, giving his all because his insides are stretched raw themselves, there's no point in holding it back. It isn't long til Sam's got a white knuckled grip on the pillow, face still hidden, all his cries muffled by soft linen. Gene's hands slide up from Sam's hips, press down at his shoulder-blade, making Sam _bend_ , whim and demand, which abruptly changes the angle of Gene's thrusts.

Sam clenches and moans, jerks back against him. 'Fuck, fuck, fuck,' he can make that out, even though it's muffled. And then, desperate need, low and hot: _Please_.

He slows down, he needs to hear that word again. Wants to hear Sam begging for it, because this is something he needs just as much as Gene does. Sam, frustration showing, throws his head back and looks to the side, wild-eyed, lips parted. 'Jesus Christ, please, _Guv_ , _please_.'

That's the trick, and Gene grins, grunts as he slams it home, Sam bucking beneath him, shuddering and cursing. It's only the weight of Gene's hands that keep him pinned in place, and it's bloody glorious.

'Come on, come on,' he gasps, pushing backwards, Gene pushing down. 'I need you, I need this, _please_.'

And he couldn't deny Sam anything, not when he asks like that, not when it comes to this, so Gene quickens his pace, giving Sam what they both need. He takes it, like he always takes it, tightens about Gene as he cries out and comes, shaking all over and gasping for breath, arms quaking but not giving out. Gene follows along, like it was simply meant to be, mind blanking out and vision blurring around the edges, orgasm crashing through him. It leaves him feeling choppy, something akin to the unruliness that takes the sea after the storm. He's no poet, at least until after he's come. Maybe it has something to do with coming inside _Sam_.

'Slag,' he says, breaks the silence. Then: 'Sam.' Still, he knows they won't move for a while, or think, or do anything much more complicated than breathing. He needs another drink, he knows he needs to move, and definitely, most definitely, he needs to put some distance between himself and Sam. Distance that doesn't currently exist, sweat-slick skin against skin, but the shag's done it's job and Gene feels alive. His heart is pumping, the blood is surging, and he's awake enough to start dragging himself through the day.

Whatever else might be said, on mornings like that, Sam will certainly be feeling it for the rest of the day.

Of course, it only goes that way if he didn't get enough kip. If he did manage to, the shagging still tends to happen, but it's as different as night and day. Gene can even admit to liking it better, and it doesn't matter if he doesn't tell Sam, because someone he knows Sam's just as aware of the difference. He sees it in his bastard brilliant smile, the slight bounce to his step that carries him through to evening.

Those days, he wakes and sees that Sam's back is to him which is, in the grand scheme of the fraction of their lives they spend in this bed, just the way it goes. Some of the covers have slipped down a notch, showing off the arm of his striped pyjamas, his hand where it's fisted in the sheets. He shifts about, sighs, slowly coming awake. Gene watches him a while longer, feels oddly exposed, peeled raw. Supporting Sam when he's at his worst always leaves him feeling that way, but he only truly becomes aware of it in the calm of the morning after, a bit of meaningful rest behind him. It reveals so much about him, and each of those things is something he can't take back.

He scoots close, closer, reaches out to pull Sam to him, loops an arm about him. Sam's warm, smells like sweat and sunlight, and like he always is, fits so perfectly in Gene's arms. Another sigh, and this time Gene's sure Sam's fully awake. He brushes a kiss at sensitive skin at the nape of Sam's neck, feels the shiver Sam gives in response.

'Shower?'

Sam shakes his head. 'Maybe in a bit.'

It's gonna be one of those mornings, then, because the signs are flashing and he reads them loud and clear. Sam shifts about in his arms, it leaves them face to face, so much more intimate than front to back. Intimate – that's what this really is, maybe more so than some of the _actual_ intimate things they get up to. Then Sam has to be a bastard and smile that smile of his, the one that makes Gene want to give him the world.

'Let's just sleep a bit longer, yeah?'

Gene nods, flashes a smile back at him, brushes a kiss at the corner of Sam's mouth. 'Sweet dreams.'

Sam's expression goes bitter-sweet, sunlight and shadow. He keeps his mouth shut, tucks his head in close, his breathing evening out in a matter of moments. He sleeps that much better when he's wrapped in Gene's arms than when he's not, as though Gene holds the power that makes everything better, _right_. Maybe he does. If it's true, then it scares him, and it's a good thing he'll be keeping that to himself too, because he'd hate to admit to such a bloody useless fear.

When he wakes again, there's short hair tickling at his nose, Sam's voice, the murmur of indistinct nothings. 'Sam,' he husks, and Sam shifts about, leans his head back, blinks open sleep-blurred eyes.

'Gene.'

And he cracks a little smile, and it's just as bright as the sun, and it might just be that Gene's damned himself with this man's love, but he'll happily bear that cross to his grave. Or until Sam slinks off into the shadows, and leaves him a shell of himself – oh, he'll carry on, be himself, but he'd hardly be the _same_.

'Morning,' he mutters, runs his hands up through Sam's hair, wiggles about to free his arm, get a good grip on Sam's head. Gene holds his face steady as he kisses him, slow and steady like an afterthought that matters – it's a slow reveal he's making, delving into Sam's mouth, exploring it with tooth and tongue.

Sam's not timid. He reaches out, one hand settling at the curve of one shoulder, the fingers of the other hand tangling in the longer hair at the nape of Gene's neck. He gives a sharp tug, and Gene barks out a laugh, one that Sam swallows down immediately, savours as he grins. They're so close now, all that clothing getting in the way, but it does nothing to dim the beating of their hearts. No, just like some other things, Gene can hear them, _feel them_ , loud and clear.

Sam shifts a leg up, hooks a foot behind Gene's knee, tugs him closer. There's no shame in the erection he's sporting, how he grinds his into Gene's, deliberately slow.

'Oh God, I want you,' Sam mutters between kisses, and Sam's hands are moving again, tugging at Gene's pyjama top, then his own. 'I need you, come on, we've got too much bloody kit on, _hurry up_.' He finishes that on a growl, a fresh hot spark of lust rushing through Gene's veins, from Sam wanting it that badly, needing _him_.

They wrestle a bit to get each other undressed, Sam dealing with Gene's kit and Gene with Sam, rolling about on the bed, panting and laughing and kissing all the while. It's foolish, and them the pair of lunatic fools. Well, fair company – if he has to share his bed with a crackpot, he couldn't ask for any better than Sam.

'Bloody lunatic bastard,' Gene gasps, Sam's hot little hand grabbing him by the prick.

' _Your_ bloody lunatic bastard,' Sam snaps back, smug and showing it, pleased as a bloody peach. Gene grabs a handful of Sam's arse to give himself some leverage, thrusting into Sam's hand and finally, finally, getting his hand on Sam's dick. Sam makes a choked off sound, mouth making an 'o', and Gene licks his way around it, and at the end of it, sinking into a kiss.

It's true, bloody hell, it's true. Sam's his, he's been Gene's from the start, and as scary as that thought is, it's scarier to think that he's wanted, just as badly, to be _Sam's_. They hold onto each other, hands moving, mouths clashing, humping wildly and coming unhinged. They're as giddy as a pair of horny teens who're afraid they'll be caught, but that only adds to the desperate thrill. Sam gasps out a _laugh_ as he comes, shuddering as he clings on, and it's so ridiculous it's gorgeous. Gene won't ever get enough. He uses the leverage he's still got a hold of to flip Sam onto his back, to kneel between his legs.

Of course, that means Sam's lost his hold on Gene's prick, but Gene will be seeing to that soon. 'Fuck!' Sam's laughing, wide-eyed, smiling – pink-cheeked and gorgeous, he must be aware of it. 'I didn't want to stop.'

'Didn't plan on that happening, Sammy-boy.' He sucks a finger into his mouth, Sam's eyes going wider as he watches the slow in and out, and between that and the hot, sticky mess that's splattered between their bellies, that's more than enough for him to slick his fingers up good and proper. Definitely enough to ease his way into Sam's tight back passage.

'Oh fuck, yes, oh God Gene, I love you.'

He doesn't even seem to hear what he's said, eyes closed, body tensing, head thrown back. He wriggles about, moans and thrashes – the sort of moaning and thrashing that suits him better, better than him alone, lost in the dark. Gene growls, chest tightening, bloody hell, whatever did he do to deserve this? What does he have to do to make sure Sam never leaves?

'You know what, Gladys?'

Sam blinks his eyes open, peers up at him, suffused in the glory of that post-orgasmic haze, letting Gene fingerfuck him. 'Hmm.' Sam shudders out a low sigh as Gene pulls his hand away. Neat and easy, nice as you please, he shifts Sam's arse up off the bed, Sam's legs split wide around him. His feet get planted on the mattress, and Sam's so hot against him, Gene vibrating with unreserved need.

'Nnngh... what is it, Guv?'

He flicks his tongue across his lips. 'I do too.'

The smile that follows is heartbreakingly beautiful, and Gene has to get a hand on his dick and nudge it in a bit, just to get started. Sam tenses, pulls back, biting his lip as he revels in the pressure. He arches up off the bed, Gene rocking himself forward, sheathing himself in Sam's heat.

'Oh,' Sam gasps, shudders, gasps again. ' _Oh_.'

Gene smirks, stares at Sam's face as he relaxes, settles down into the moment. 'All good?'

Sense has fled him, or at least the means to speak. Sam nods, a smile fluttering across his lips.

'Right – let's get to it, then.' It's fucking but it's so much more than that. He moves with slow, purposeful intent, sliding out and driving himself in, feels each shudder of Sam's breath as it ricochets through him, batters into Gene, shatters his defences. He leans down into it, shoulders hunching, presses a line of kisses across Sam's warm, salty chest, flicking his tongue at one dark nipple, causing Sam to laugh, buck.

'Easy now, love,' he murmurs, and Sam relaxes again, sighs softly, and Gene keeps to the pace. They move in tandem, Sam rocking into his thrusts as Gene grinds him, meaningfully, into the sheets. He's staring at him, memorising him all over again – how his head is thrown back, how the long curve of his neck is a glimmering line of flesh, and Gene wants everything and all at once. He'll never have the time.

He leans in a touch closer, licks at it, kisses it, and he's bent so close now, he's sure he's going to break. He grabs at Sam's arms to get a better hold on him, clamps down as Sam's biceps strain, and as Gene gives in and gently bites at Sam's neck, there's Sam's touch, bold as ever, locking themselves in place at his shoulders, fingernails scraping over skin. There's something about Sam, Sam's _touch_ , Sam's everything, that binds him tighter than his marriage vows ever did. Maybe some days he'll hate him, wish he never stepped into CID, but if there's anything Gene ever does right in this life, it'll be him making sure Sam _stays_. 

It surprises him when he lasts as long as he does. He comes and he crashes down, and he has to get a grip on it, quick, before Sam ends up being crushed – he's blanked out on the world, shaken to the core. Gene eases out with a hiss and a groan and flops over to the side instead, ends up flat on his back. Chest is heaving, mind spinning, and then there's Sam, wrapping about him, pillowing his head at Gene's shoulder, resting his hand above Gene's racing heart.

'I know you're real,' he whispers – so low, maybe Sam hadn't even said it at all.

Because, does it mean Sam remembers it, those times in the dark of it when he's hit rock bottom, lost in a dream, gone beyond his worst? Or is it just a deep-rooted worry, one he can't quite rid himself of completely, even when he's fully awake?

Gene crushes Sam to him, kisses his damp hair, his cheek, all over his face. 'Course I'm real. You're the figment here, Sammy-boy – sometimes I'm scared you'll up and leave me. Go back to Hyde, something like that. A Division wouldn't be the same without you.'

Oh, that's a bit more than he'd meant to say, but there's no taking it back: and at least he hadn't gone all out and said what he knows he really should have, _I wouldn't be the same without you_.

Sam shifts about, hides a smile against Gene's chest, nuzzles with his lips and nose. 'I'm here, Guv – I'm staying.' Gene tilts his head to get a better look at his bedmate, but all he can see is the crown of Sam's mussy hair.

'Good,' Gene grunts out roughly, throat gone tight. 'Job'd be twice as hard without you around.'

He means so much more than that, but he's saying it the only way his mouth will allow.

'Shower?' he asks again.

Sam does a bit more shifting about, stretches as he starts sitting up. The flash of his grin catches Gene off guard, dazzles him – for a good long minute, Gene just lies back and stares at him, overwhelmed.

Sam reaches out, eventually, touches his cheek. 'Yeah – come on. Maybe I'll fry you up something disgustingly unhealthy afterwards, how does that sound?'

Gene grins back at him, grabs Sam's hand and presses a wet kiss to his palm. 'Like a bloody perfect way to start the day. Not that the sex was bad, mind – get a move on, Doris, your gorgeous arse is needed elsewhere.'

Sam huffs out a laugh as he rolls to the side, rolls his eyes as he shakes his head, radiating an annoying amount of smug-arsed _Samness_ , and the moment couldn't be more _right_. 'Where, in the kitchen?'

'Oi, you're the one who looks good in an apron. Anyhow, shower first, then some brekkie.'

'Sounds good to me, Guv.'

They'll laugh some more when they finally get to the shower, laugh, and kiss, and _touch_ , as well as while they get dressed, because they're a bloody matched set. Gene knows what it paints them as, acting like a pair of heart-eyed fools, the sort who're desperately, head-over-heels, in love. It's not something they could get away with anywhere else, not out in the world, not even at work, so Gene cherishes the time spent in his house – in his bed – like the precious thing it is, and cherishes _Sam_. He knows Sam's a once in a lifetime occurrence, that and his love, and because of that – all of that – Gene doesn't hate any of it as much as he could.

No, he doesn't really hate it at all.

Whatever else might be said, on mornings like that, Gene will certainly be feeling it for the rest of the day. And if, against all odds, he's lucky – incredibly so – maybe he'll be feeling it for the rest of his life.


End file.
